


Standing at the Rim of Sorrow

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Library Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Library Vignette...in which Harold arrives wet and feeling insecure, and Reese tries to explain.<br/>Characters studies; POV Reese<br/>Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. Such a pity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing at the Rim of Sorrow

_“He shoots, he scores, the crowd goes wild…!”_  
Reese grins as another peanut hull lands square in the middle of the waste paper basket. 

The wind and rain had held off until he’d made it into the library earlier in the afternoon, but had soon gathered the strength to emulate a ‘big bad wolf’, huffing and puffing against the grimy windows. With the deepening shadows and glow from the antique lighting, the library is now rather cozy...or at least as cozy as a room the size of Mammoth Cave can be. 

Reese thinks about going back to his condo, but with the completion of this assignment he wants…needs…to make a final report to his boss. And besides, his apartment while spacious and more luxurious than any he’s had before, also feels empty. Lonely.

He’s been entertaining himself for the better part of an hour now, more than halfway through the bag of peanuts bought from the street vendor. The small waste paper basket which earlier had been positioned between his legs, is now sitting several feet away as boredom soon transformed hulling peanuts into a tossing game. A game he seems to be winning with increasing frequency. A smug smile tugs at his lips. 

The ex-op is busy prying another twin set of nuts from a hull when his employer appears in the hallway, prompting him to quickly pick up the few wayward pieces of shell on the desk and toss them into the waste basket. Finch is even more fastidious in keeping a pristine computer area than he is in his attire; finding a litter of peanut hulls on the desk would simply be inviting another lecture on the virtues of workplace cleanliness.  
Been there done that, he doesn’t want to hear it again. 

“Finch…? So, how was it?”

“Boring.”

His boss moves with a characteristic limp into the library area, hanging the dripping umbrella and moist coat on the rack before easing into the desk chair, his hair still gleaming with raindrops. Reese glances quickly around the surrounding floor area and surreptitiously shoves an errant shell under the furniture with his foot. Almost missed it!

He reaches for another peanut, positioning the waste basket once again between his feet. Game over.

“That’s it…boring? No outraged shareholders demanding the board resign? No protests against…well…whatever?” 

“No.”

Reese freezes on the curt response and observes silently as the older man flips switches to boot up the peripherals. The monitor flickers on, the printer progresses through its merry set-up clatter, and the smooth hum of the disk drive barreling through the normal security check fills the room. 

The ex-op continues to study his employer who is now sitting mutely through the startup process, staring at the monitor. Finch’s hands rest on the keyboard and it suddenly occurs to him that Finch is not looking _at_ the screen, but _through_ it… 

“Something wrong, Finch?” he asks softly. 

His boss remains silent, though now shifting his gaze to the keyboard. And while the computer finished running through the startup sequence and the monitor screen fills with data files, Finch seems not to notice, remaining in his frozen state. Reese squirms in his chair as he runs through a series of possible scenarios that could account for this unusual behavior. 

He rules out his very first thought, that something has happened to Grace; he knows that is not the case. But maybe Finch discovered at the shareholders meeting that he’d lost all his assets? Or did someone recognize Harold Finch/Wren/Crane from a past life, blow his cover? 

Or…and he cringes at the thought…did Finch get mugged on the way to the library? 

This last possibility alarms him, but a quick survey of his employers clothing and exposed skin does not support a theory of violent assault. Still, it would be nice to have some verification.

“Finch?” 

His taciturn benefactor remains unmoving, staring at his hands splayed across the keyboard. And just as Reese tosses patience out the window and prepares to take the issue to a physical level, Finch speaks.

“She hugged you…”

Reese’s thoughts reel. He doesn’t know what he expected, but certainly not that! As he processes the implication of his employer’s statement, his anger rises. Concentrating on keeping his temper under control, he says tightly, “We had a deal, Finch.”

Silence.

“You agreed when I turn off the earwig, you no longer have me under surveillance! “

Silence.

He leaves his seat, moves around the desk to face the computer geek and planting both hands on the flat surface, leans into his employers space. But Finch refuses to meet his eyes, keeping them firmly on the keyboard. “Were you spying on me?” the ex-op asks, his soft tone belying tight lips and a steely glint. 

“She hugged you.” Finch repeats miserably.

Reese stills, scrutinizes his boss for several seconds, and slowly lets go of his anger. He returns to his seat, acknowledging what he knows to be true: Finch wasn’t watching _him…_

“I returned her purse, Finch. It was a hug of gratitude…nothing more.” He turns in his chair to face the older man. “And besides, she hugged Detective Stills, not me.”

Finch snorts, his first overt sign of emotion since entering the library. “Like that makes a difference, Mr. Reese! “

Rubbing a hand over his face, the ex-op sighs. His employer had obviously been observing him, following him the whole time during his last assignment, likely switching from one street camera to the next. And he had stood in the open doorway, clearly visible to someone with the skills of this surveillance genius. 

She had hugged him, and then invited him inside… and he’d accepted.

“She was very happy to get her purse back, Finch. And relieved, especially since there was nothing missing. I only went inside to make sure all was well, and because I thought you might be interested how she was doing with the new job.” 

He glances at Finch again, gauging the effects of his words. His boss is still not responding, but Reese understands. Finch is listening attentively. “Which by the way, is coming along nicely. She’s very talented,” he continues smoothly.

Reese leans toward his benefactor, anxious to appease this man, this person who rescued him from self-destruction, making his life meaningful again. “And remember the photo of the two of you? It’s in a new frame now. She’s moved it to the table next to her drawing board...” 

Reese leans back and lets the silence grow as he reaches for his bag of peanuts. For several minutes the only sounds in the library are those of the rain, the humming equipment, and the shredding of peanut shells. He reviews in his mind scenes of his encounter earlier in the day, all he saw, all that was said. And how he can further explain his actions so as to ease his employer. He doesn't like seeing his boss standing at the rim of sorrow.

Then he hears Finch’s soft voice. “Thank you, Mr. Reese.”

“You’re welcome, Harold.” 

And as the rain beats on the library windows, it joins in with a keyboard cadence, the ping of peanut hulls landing in the center of a waste paper basket, and the self-satisfied sound of the ex-op whispering to himself: _“He shoots, he scores, the crowd goes wild…! “_


End file.
